


Freaky Friday In Ankh-Morpork

by Zoya1416



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Damn Wizards up to Something, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mind Swap, Sex Magic, Sufficiently Advanced Technology, magical accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-02
Updated: 2013-12-02
Packaged: 2018-01-03 07:12:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1067552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The damn wizards of UU are messing around with lightening again. Vetinari and Vimes try to stop them, but there is a magical accident causing them to switch minds. Confusion ensues for the watch House and the Palace. Leonard of Quirm finds a solution. It ends with explicit sex, although in A VERY GOOD CAUSE.</p><p>Setting is after Night Watch</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freaky Friday In Ankh-Morpork

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oneinspats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneinspats/gifts), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Discworld and all its characters belong to Terry Pratchett. I am a virgin to slash, and it takes me awhile to set it up. I thank OneInSpats for causing me to read and reflect my views, and both he and ZarKir for providing excellent FanFic art.

Thunderheads towered over Ankh-Morpork turning the world beneath green and purple. The wizards of UU were at the top of the HEM building, with coils and cables of wire.  
Sam Vimes skidded to a stop at the portico of the University, looking behind him for the Patrician who followed more slowly.

“Come on, Lordship, those fools are trying it again. You've got to tell them to stop! I'm not getting blasted back thirty years through time, I'll tell you!”

“Why are you here, then?” said the cool mocking voice which always made him want to hit the man, scorpion pit or no. Vetinari joined him at the portico, black robes flying in the wind.

“'cause there's law and order in this city—you're the law, and I'm the order. I want you to tell them to stop while I try to keep anyone else from being hurt!” Vimes shook his head. As usual, and for the several-hundredth time, he tried to curb his anger toward the city leader. It was something, though, that the Patrician had come with him on this errand, since the man stirred out of the Palace so seldomly.

Without further words, the Patrician strode into the middle of the university square, calling out, “Mustrum! Archchancellor! Mr. Stibbons! Stop this now! I have signed an edict against this experiment!”

Vimes had to give the man credit, he didn't lack courage. After Vimes had been cast thirty years into the past, he would not come any nearer the wizards' hell-contraption.

A head looked over the HEM building, and shook its head. It shouted down something, and just at that moment, a cracking fire-bolt shot into the copper collector at the top of the building. The bolt passed through a metal ball, and Vimes could hear distant cheers.

Then the ball itself exploded, the bolt of lightening ran down the water spout of the building, and across the square. It picked up the Patrician and threw him back fifty feet under the portico, where he slammed into the wall. Vimes bent to pick the man up, and the lightening bolt grounded itself through his metal helmet. Screaming, he, too, fell to the ground, the Patrician in his arms, both of them staring at each other. 

After some period, he awoke, head aching.  
“I will kill those bastards, see if I don't, trying it again.”  
His voice sounded odd to him, lighter. He was on the thin bed in his watch house office, and he wondered painfully why he hadn't been taken home to Scoone Avenue. It didn't smell like his office, though, with its humidor odor from decades of cigars. There was no noise, either. Perhaps he was dead. He groaned.

A soft voice said, “Your Lordship, you're awake now? I have some painkiller here for you.”

What idiot was calling him, “your Lordship?” It was a very stupid joke. He rolled over, and vomited.

The same soft voice said, “Here, sir, let me clean that. And here's a wet towel.”  
He opened one eye, looked blearily up into the face of Rufus Drumknott, and fainted again.

The second time he awoke, he listened carefully for any noise—still none—and tried to take in his surroundings better. Thin bed, thin quilt—soft silky sheets. Nothing in his home on Scoone Avenue matched that description, and nothing at the Watch House, either. He raised his hands to his head to feel the throbbing injury. His hands felt odd. His head felt odd, too, somehow with finer hair. 

And then as he carefully drew his hands, fearfully, worrying—such long hands—down the side of his face, he felt the narrow jaw beard of Havelock Vetinari, Patrician.

The door opened and Drumknott came in again. “Here, sir, I brought you some tea.”

Tea. Tea was wonderful. What was not wonderful, though, was the fine china cup which was handed to him, and the tasteless substance it contained.

“Take it back and boil it till it's done properly. And put four sugars in it.”

“My Lord?”

“Just do it, Drumknott.” 

He remembered a little. He—Lord Vetinari and he—had been racing to stop another ill advised experiment at the University. The Patrician was blasted back into his arms, and then they were fried with the lightening bolt. And somehow—he looked at his pale thin hands again—another disaster had occurred.

He sat up in the bed, looking at his room by the one candle, trembling.  
He was in fine underclothing—nice to know the bastard spent money on something. He realized that he was in the intimate garments the Patrician had worn. An image came to him of the Patrician sitting nude on this bed, with his long, lean, pale body, putting on these very underclothes, and then slipping on his black suit and black robes. Vimes had known for some time why he always stared over Vetinari's shoulder when he gave a report. It is said that the eyes were the window of the soul, and Vimes did not want the Patrician to catch his eyes and discover what was there underneath the anger. Drumknott came in and tucked a black dressing gown around his shoulders. Tea came, and was finally something familiar. Tea steeped the color of an orange boot, with the sugar he needed.

“It's four o'clock, sir. I didn't know whether you wanted to sleep in, so I didn't wake you at 3:30.”

Four o'clock was sleeping in for the Patrician? “Don't wake me again until six-thirty.”

At six-thirty in the morning, it was almost dawn. Vimes struggled up, decided he didn't need a pain-killer, and dressed himself in Vetinari's clothes. Where was the fellow? At home in Sam's bed—with Sam's wife? He felt fury at that thought. But then his Lordship must feel about the same way he did, and hopefully too disoriented to peek at Sybil.

A thin bowl of gruel was brought to him.  
“What's this?”

“Your breakfast, sir. Your normal breakfast?”  
There had to be a way to undo this madness. But if it were anything like the last time, it might be days, surely not weeks, until that could happen. And the History Monks probably wouldn't be able to help either. Until then, he needed to keep quiet about what had happened. It wouldn't do either he or Vetinari any good to let the city know its two most powerful men had misplaced their bodies.

The gruel eaten, he went into the Oblong Office, sat in the tall chair, seeing it for the first time from this side. It was freezing, as always. Well, he didn't have to tolerate that.  
He leaned back in the chair and yelled, “Drumknott! as he would have at the Watch House. The blond haired man popped his head in from an office next door, looking puzzled.

“My Lord??”

“Put some more coal on, man, it's freezing in here.”

“Yes, sir. And your first appointment is here. It's Mr. Boggis and Mrs. Palm.”

“Bring them in.”

Oh, right, he should have made them wait fifteen minutes under that stupid clock. Well, maybe they'd be so shocked he could get through this quickly.

The two came in arguing and sat down without being asked.  
Hmmm, he thought. Damn if he would wait the next time, if the thieves and who—ladies of negotiable affection didn't.

“What is it?” He almost barked at them, turning it into a cough as they turned amazed.

He tried to form his fingers into the steepled gesture Lord Vetinari always used.

The two of them blustered at once. He scowled, sat back in the chair, folded his arms.

“Shut up, you two! Rosie, tell me what's going on.”

“Well..., my Lord, goodness how gruff this morning! Mr. Boggis here is claiming that my girls are thieving and unlicensed. And he sent some men into the house yesterday to demand they stop it!”

“Are they thieving, Rosie?”

Boggis jumped in at that point. “You won't believe the complaints I've gotten! Men come to us because they've been robbed of watches, rings, money clips, from your whorehouse.”

“House of negotiable affection. Sometimes the gentlemen leave us so suddenly they neglect to reacquire all their possession. We have no way of knowing who left us what.”

The two fell into agitated argument again. 

“Rosie! Boggis! Enough of this.” His head was splitting and he knew he was doing a poor job of imitating the Patrician. He struggled on.

“Rosie, you tell your girls to stop stealing. If any valuables are accidentally left behind, put them in your office to restore to men who come back for them. And Boggis, if your men enter her premises again without money in their hands, she's justified in kicking them out! Now get out of here, you two.”

Amazement was large in both their eyes.

Control, control, he must try to act like the bloody bastard. He put his hands back on his desk in the steepled position, and snarled, “Don't let me detain you.”

Gods, it was fun to be able to say that.

He leaned back on his chair again, and spoke softly.

“Drumknott? That gruel was fine, but I'm still hungry. Please tell the kitchen to send me up a bacon sarnie.” The secretary's eyes were now suspicious, but Vimes practiced his haughty stare, and Drumknott left without saying anything.

Across town, Havelock Vetinari wasn't having a good day, either. He woke in pain, rolling over in his bed. Which was fluffy like a cloud, not thin and firm for his back. Funny, his back didn't ache at all, although his head hurt fiercely.

His senses were a little quicker than Vimes. The bed was large, the draperies (draperies!) were pink, and someone, a woman by the perfume, was in bed with him. This hadn't happened in a long time, well, and hardly ever with a woman, anyway, and he wondered if he had a hangover to feel so ill. Then the woman, a large woman by the movement of the bed, and he had a terrible foreboding about this, said, “Sam? Are you alright?”

Sybil Ramkin-Vimes rolled herself near him, her blue eyes concerned, the shoulder strap of her nightgown slipping down way too far.

When Vetinari was 11, he, and the other boys of the Assassin's Guild, joined the children of the highest society in Ankh Morpork in the pre-adolescent hell known as cotillion. They were forced to learn dancing to improve their social graces. The dance lessons provided included the rumba, the samba, country dancing in complicated patterns, and the minuet, thereby rendering them competent with all the skills needed for the 1800's in Genua.

Sybil Ramkin was the same height then that she was now, five-seven or eight, and was already well developed. None of the boys was over five feet tall except Ronnie Rust, who was almost Sybil's height. They were, therefore, not face to face with her when they danced, but face to—chest—bosom—ti-womanly curves. This could have been quite pleasant, but Lord Ramkin, not unaware of his child's growth, came to cotillion lessons and glowered at them.

After the second week, the instructor gave in and assigned girls to partner with Sybil, now only embarrassing that half of the class. 

So it was incorrect to say that he'd never seen Sybil Ramkin's enormous breasts before, but now they were thirty years grander, and alarmingly close to him. Vimes was absolutely going to kill him.

“Nnnuh! Wh'r my clothes? G't to get to the office, nnnuuh, the Yard.” He spun away from her, and fell off the bed. She looked over the edge, astonished, and now the nightgown was down on both shoulders, exposing the upper brown curves of her—eek! He rolled up again, reflexes not his own, taking shorter strides to a chair where a watch uniform lay. It was going to be too short. Except, that of course, it wasn't, he noticed, as he dressed hurriedly with brown (brown!) muscular hands trembling. He pulled on the very lumpy socks and boots, and looked at the armor. Which way to go? If he hesitated, she would wonder. He scooped it all up, grateful to see that there was a distinct breast plate, hurrying, strapping unfamiliar buckles. He turned to go out, and Sybil was there again, wearing a dressing gown, thank gods, handing him a greasy feeling thick sandwich.

“Oh?”

“A bacon sandwich for you today, dear. I thought you might need it.” She smiled kindly.

A man who has eaten gruel for breakfast for twenty-five years, and has sustained a serious blow to the head will not look on a greasy sandwich with joy. He was nauseated, and grew pale, and she could see it. 

“Here, I'll get it wrapped and put it into a box for you.”

He waved her off, and turned to charge out of the house.

“Sam! Your helmet?”  
Mistakes, mistakes, there were hundreds of mistakes which could doom this terrible swap. It wouldn't do to let the city know that the Patrician and the second most powerful man in the city were neither one of them in their right minds.

He raced out of the estate, running faster than he had in many years, (except for yesterday, and wasn't that a bad idea?), knowing that his legs would give out any minute. It wasn't that he was completely out of shape; he still climbed over rooftops at least twice a month, crouching, running softly along. But it wasn't the sustained running Vimes did all the time.

But his legs (Short! Brown with tan!) pumped well, and he ran so fast he was almost past Pseudopolis Yard before he realized he needed to stop there, not the Palace.  
He wasn't blowing at all, just breathing a little faster, when he walked in the door.

He didn't panic. He never panicked. But he was out of place and off balance. Men, women, dwarfs, trolls, all saluted when he walked in, several asking if he felt well. He looked for Captain Carrot, and didn't see him. Not that he really wanted to talk to the Captain, anyway. Carrot's honesty and simplicity was not the right thing for this kind of problem. He had never been here before; he had no idea where Vimes' office even was. A problem Vimes did not have, he reflected sourly.

Well, he was the one with the tricky mind; he could improvise.

He clapped his hands.

“Watchmen! Today is the day for a surprise inspection!”

There were raised eyebrows or the troll equivalent at that. The watchman he recognized as Corporal Nobby said, “But our last surprise inspection was two weeks ago! He usually does them once a quarter.” Nobby fell into close conversation with Colon, who he overheard saying, “Nobby, just put it back!”  
“But I ain't got it.”  
“He'll shake you down for it, like always.”

He carried on, insisting on a tour of the entire watch house, sniffing when he found a deficiency, until someone offered him a handkerchief. Then he started growling. “This changing room is filthy! When was the last time someone cleaned out these cells! Those cobwebs! And the canteen! This trash is two days old!” He trailed through every inch, looking in each little office—bedroom for several, he realized, complimenting on any with a reasonably clear desk. When he finally got to the office at the top back which overlooked the whole thing, (exactly where he would have put it, except it had no back entrance) he threw it open, wincing at the interior, and saying gruffly, “Aha! And here is the perfect office! See, the piles of paper on the floor and on the desk are exactly the same in height!”

They laughed and he sat down at Vimes' desk, gratefully, looked out the window at the unexpected view, and realized the windowsill was suspiciously clean for the rest of the room. He got up, looked at it, and smiled. This window was used probably as frequently as his crawls along rooftops. For a minute he just rested. He was used to appointments every three to seven minutes. It was luxurious to have nothing to do for a second. The room smelled like Vimes, a warm masculine smell. Even the raw cigar smell was good in here, mingled with the man's own. Pity they hadn't met earlier. But Lance Constable Vimes was a scrawny little squick, nothing like the mature man, and surely was less open to options, or even aware of them, than the man would be. 

Usually when the man visited him he smelled like nothing but anger. Curious, he checked the Commander's desk. There was a snarl of office supplies in the top drawer and a neat set of notebooks in the second. In the third was a supply of the foul cigars Vimes smoked, and...what was this? A bottle of Bearhugger's Whiskey? He thought the man didn't drink anymore. He lifted it out—it was full and the seal was intact. Probably an unnecessary test of will.

As long as he was here, he might as well see what he could do with this appalling paperwork. He sorted through the top of the desk, pulling similar looking pages together. Bills, pay chitties which needed to be sent in to him—a month ago?  
Notes scribbled on every kind of paper—the door opened after a quick knock, and Captain Angua came in, saying, “Mr. Vimes, I got a clacks from Carrot that he'll be starting back from Copperhead after his grandfather's”—she stopped and he gave her a thin smile, then a broader one as he imagined Vimes would.

She was not smiling.  
“I know who you are. What are you doing—how did this happen?”  
“Of course, you know me, Captain Angua, (mistake, mistake). I've been your boss for, how long now?”

“You're not Mr. Vimes.” Her head lowered slightly and he saw her nostrils flare. “You're his Lor—”

“Shut up,” he hissed. “Close the door.”  
They stared at each other. “How did you know? The man's wife didn't even know.”

“You slept with HER GRACE?” Angua was leaning over the desk, looking as if she would rip his throat out immediately.

“No! This was an accident, a magical accident with the damn wizards again. There was a lightening storm yesterday, and their collector exploded, throwing us into each other and knocking us out. When I woke up this morning, I was in—this body.”—he looked down at his—Vimes'--too brown arms with black hair curling over the fingers.  
“I was at Ramkin Manor and I got out of there as soon as I woke up. Her Grace thought I was him. How did you know?”

“Besides the fact that you've been prancing around the watch house acting like you didn't know where your own office was?” She sneered at him. “Werewolf nose, remember.”

“Even though I'm in his body?” Saying this again was still as odd.  
She shrugged. “Maybe I can smell your soul.” 

“Did you need anything? Because I'm going to make myself useful while I'm here, and clean up what I can of his paperwork. Do not let me--” he choked off at her glare. She had a pretty strong glare. He dropped his eyes, then raised them coldly. He would not let a werewolf outstare him. He started sorting again.

There was a clanging bell downstairs, and she lunged out of the office, then looked back at him. “That's an all officers bell! Get your helmet on and come down here!”

It was an attack on Cheery Littlebottom, who had been collecting evidence after a bomb had been thrown into a chemist's on the Street of Cunning Artificers, at Upper Broadway. He looked longingly at his palace as they ran past, and then they were there. Cheery was barricaded inside the store, and a gang of ten or twelve unruly young men were pelting her with rocks. She had her ax, but it was very little good at a time like this.

The gang began to run away when they saw the watchmen, but he was in the front rank, and caught one of them by the shoulder. The youth clotted a blow toward him and banged him on the nose. A bystander giggled. Then he was furious. He wasn't some gangly youth, even though he was still unfamiliar with this body. The Assassin's Guild, although mostly interested in weapons, still had physical training. Moreover, he maintained a gymnastics room in the palace, and he, Drumknott, and the male palace servants sparred with each other regularly. 

He pulled the youth over his hip and threw him down hard, then sat on him. He looked at the other watchmen for a pair of handcuffs, and was chagrined to notice he had some on his belt. He yanked them on tight.

And he still was only breathing fast for a couple of minutes! Gods, Vimes was a monster! What a glorious man he was!

Angua came up to him. “Are you alright, your—Mr. Vimes?”  
“A little nosebleed. Is Miss Cheery okay?”

“Cheery's fine. And don't say Miss Cheery. Don't say anything until we get back.”

He took her at her word, and they were back at his—Vimes' office again.

“Where's Mister Vimes? At the Palace? What are you going to do?” He startled to bristle at her familiarity and she said firmly, “you don't want me calling you Lord Vetinari here, do you?”

“No. And I'm not sure what to do. But I need to get back to the Palace and talk to Leonard. He's the only person I know who may be able to help.”

“Right, let's go.”

They went up to the Palace at a slower pace. No one looked twice at him. When they got to the Oblong Office, he turned down to the private entrance. Angua made a note of it. Drumknott was in his office, and he rose. “Your Grace! What are you?”...he trailed off and looked over his shoulder at the Oblong Office.  
“ARE you Sir Samuel? Your Grace?”

“No, Drumknott, it's me. There was another damn magical accident yesterday. Tell Sir Samuel I need to see him immediately.”

He saw himself come into the little office and look at him...no, VIMES came into the office. This was worse than when Tulip and Pin had tried that Charlie impersonator. 

Vimes said menacingly, “Enjoyed your sleep at Ramkin Manor, my Lord?”

Vetinari threw up his hand (too brown! Arm too short!) “Don't waste time, your Grace. I said nothing untoward to your wife. I did almost throw up at the bacon sandwich she offered me, though.”

His face—Vimes' face, looked longingly. “She made you a bacon sandwich? A proper bacon sandwich? Not one of those limp little things you do here?”

“Did you not like my gruel?”

“No. And the bacon sandwich wasn't much better.”

“He told me how he wanted the second one fixed, your Lordship,” said Drumknott, looking at Vetinari—then back at Vimes.

“You ate two bacon sandwiches? In my body! I'll be sick for a week!”

Angua snarled. “Mister Vimes, your Lordship, shut up!”

They both frowned at her.

“We're wasting time. Your lordship,” looking at the wrong body again, then switching over, “You said you needed to see Leonard of Quirm.”

“Yes, I'll go down to him.” Then Vetinari hesitated. In Vimes' body he still found it difficult to get completely normal balance. Could he traverse the traps and pitfalls down to Leonard's room? 

“I'll go to the hall and use the speaking tube. He can come up to me.”

Leonard emerged at the top of the staircase and looked at Vetinari's body. “Why didn't you come down, your Lordship?”

“I'm over here, Leonard,” he said. “There was a magical accident. We got switched.”

Vimes said, “And we really have to get it fixed soon. Lady Margolotta sent her clacks in with her Thud move. And I don't know how to play Thud!”

Vetinari looked longingly at the thought of his Thud game, then smirked. “You have twenty-six hours, Sir Samuel. She doesn't expect a move back until tomorrow.”

“Wasting time.” Angua gritted again. 

“We need your help, Leonard.”

“Yes, come down to the workshop.”

“I can't move in his body, and HE doesn't know the pattern.”

“Oh, that's alright. I turned off the traps when I came up.”

“Turned them off?” Vetinari said.

“ Of course, in case of accidents. There's a button in the cherubs on the wall, downstairs and up. Didn't I ever show you?”

“No. But I must take this up with you later.”

When they arrived at Leonard's airy workshop, Vimes gawked. The room was twice as big as the house on Cockbill Street. It had a tall ceiling, and many skylights. The bird and animal skeletons, the easels, paints, chalks, pencils, a dressmaker's dummy, a stuffed alligator, an elephant's foot, racks and racks of special papers, knives, a disassembled bicycle in the air, unidentified machinery parts and tools of every kind, metal sheets of every size and thickness, coils of copper wire, (Vimes curled his lip at those) and sketches stuffed the place, yet it was more organized than his own office. 

He picked up a beautiful drawing of a kitten looking at a ladybug on a rose, and turned it upside down to see the little mechanical drawing at the bottom. He recognized a throwing ballista, but the arms were very long. The payload was...what? Burning sulfur! And there were numbered and labeled parts? Gods!

He looked at Vetinari. His body! And caught his eye. He, no, Vetinari, grimaced and nodded.

Vimes looked down at himself, with the black robes, the too pale, thin hands, and felt like a fool. He noticed Angua looking at him pityingly. She came over.  
“You still smell like yourself, Mister Vimes. And he smells like Lord Vetinari. I could tell that right away.”

“But—how?”  
“I don't know how. I told him maybe I could smell his soul.”

Leonard was gesturing animatedly to Vetinari, who nodded at him, and asked a question.

Leonard shrugged, and said something which evidently displeased Vetinari, but he nodded, frowning. Then he looked over at Vimes, with the first smile Vimes had ever seen. It was a little wicked smile, and somehow very knowing. Vimes grimaced. What? But Vetinari turned away again. They were up to something with this switching-bodies-cure, he knew it. But why would Vetinari want to harm his own chances?

Vimes noticed his own thick brown hair, rough-cut as usual, but full, and smiled a little. The little skullcap Vetinari habitually wore, he'd noticed with pleasure, really did cover a circle of baldness.

Vetinari came over. “Leonard thinks he can build us something, but it will take at least a day. Maybe two.”

“You can't do my job for two days.”  
“Well, you can't do mine.”

“Cooperate, maybe...” said Angua. “I can help his lordship at the Watch House—you can walk the night patrol with me, my Lord,” she smiled wickedly. And can't you get Drumknott to help Mr. Vimes?”

“Well, I shout at people. I can't handle those little glares and raised eyebrows he does—you do--I shouted at Mr. Boggis and Rosie this morning—all sorted out, your lordship—and then the Cattle Market people came in with the Fishmongers, all arguing about who needed more dock space, and I told them to work out a plan and get back to me in a week.”

“Good suggestion.”

“Then Mr. de Worde and Miss Cripslock came in saying that you had requested an interview, and I didn't see them, thought they might detect more than most people. But I let them interview Drumknott,” he finished happily.

“I hope they didn't pry any state secrets out of him, your Grace,” said Vetinari sternly, though smiling faintly, with HIS voice.

“If you can't trust the man anymore than that...”

They finally climbed back up the stairs, and Vetinari pulled him back, whispering to him. First time he'd ever been this close to the Patrician, and the man was tickling his ear with his breath!

“Come back here tonight—oh, I guess you'll be here. I wish I could stay and talk to Leonard more. I might be able to tell you something tonight. He looked at Vimes with the curious little expression again, and rolled his shoulders lazily, provocatively. Vimes still felt somehow that a trick was being played on him. Why? What was he missing? This was extremely serious.

“You'd better get down to the watch house. They'll need you.”

“What should I look for?”

“Angua will handle most things. But you'll be needed for an all officers, or in case somebody decides to play Koom Valley early this year, or for unusual crimes. Cheery will leave you notes about the bombing. I heard that you felled a perpetrator this morning, all by yourself? But you got my nose bloodied. She'll tell everyone you—I need to rest more from my accident yesterday—stay in my office. Is Carrot back yet?”

“No. And I think that's a very good thing—the Captain could not handle this ambiguity.”

“Then you get to do the night patrol with Angua. You'll love it. I hope it rains.” He looked at Vetinari's, his, boots. “You've got the wrong boots on.”

“Those were the ones I saw in the bedroom.”

“Yes, but those are the good boots, not the ones with the cardboard soles. You'll never learn to feel the street in those boots.”

“I may not ever feel my feet again. What's the matter with your socks? Why can't you get proper ones?”

Vimes went silent. For the first time Vetinari saw something in the other's face that looked dangerous, that looked more like himself.

“There's nothing wrong with the socks. Did you say anything to Sibyl about them?” he said threateningly.

“No, I told you, I ran out of there so fast she had to remind me to get your helmet.”

Vimes didn't say anything else.

Then he looked up at Vetinari, grinned a little, then pulled his brows (the black curved brows!) down together severely.

“That will be all. Don't let me detain you, your lordship.”

“Yes, your Grace. Sir Samuel, thank you for your service this morning, but I think you should take the afternoon off, too. We wouldn't want too many of my Guilds upset.”

Vimes slept all afternoon, then ate supper, not the vegetables Vetinari would have had, but, with relish, and malice, his third bacon sandwich of the day. Then he did have stomach pain, and realized he couldn't abuse the borrowed body too much.

Lord Vetinari spent an educational night. Angua didn't need to teach him about proceeding; the body, it seemed, remembered how its muscles should go. They walked the length and breadth of the city, though not every block. He asked her about that.

“We don't have the manpower. Besides, we can't go down most of the Shades with two officers, we just listen in at the major streets. And the Scoone Avenue folks do want block to block patrols. We mainly guard the stores, and craftsmen.”

In turn, he showed her some of his favorite climbs, what he looked for, how HE checked out his city.  
“And I can get through the Shades, too, if I have to, just staying on the rooftops.”

“In boots?”

“No, of course not. I have soft slippers.”

She was thoughtful. “We could fold the slippers up and put them on the utility belts, I think. More people need to learn to climb.”

He was pleased.

In the morning he went back to the palace, had some of his proper gruel, checked that Leonard was ready.

“You really think this is the only way?”

“The quickest way. Anything else would take me days to ponder, and who knows whether I could get a better solution.”

“Mister Vimes is going to go spare,” said Vetinari, proving that his day in the watch house had not been wasted.

“You really think so? He's never been with a--?”

“No. And while you and I are more sophisticated and, um, flexible about these things, I can't wait to tell him that your great solution depends on sex magic. With me.”

“Simplest way to let two people get changed inside each other, really,” said Leonard, hurt. “And it's not magic, it's sufficiently advanced technology. It will store all the sexual energy you two create, then let it fuel the mechanism.”

“Let's go explain it to him.”

Vimes stared at them disbelievingly.

“No.”

“Your grace, it will work,” said Leonard. “And his lordship can show you everything.”

“I'll just bet he can show me everything—nothing I haven't seen every day.”

“Come on, Sir Samuel, it will work. Or at least it will be fun.” This all said much cheekier than Vimes wanted to hear. The other man, HIS LORDSHIP, reached out and took his hand. With Vimes own hand. This was entirely too strange. They had to do something soon, or Vetinari would be going home to his wife for the foreseeable future.

He tried hard not to shudder. They went down the corridor to a bedroom much more cheerfully furnished, with a larger, softer bed, than Vetinari's was.

He huddled at the edge of the room, glowering. Vetinari reached for two cups on the nightstand, a blue drink.

“What is it?”

“Something to keep your vigor up. We don't know how long this will take.”

“We don't?” Vimes squeaked. “I thought it was just once.”

But Vetinari was sitting on the bed, taking off his boots, still rubbing his feet with the sock creases.

“Come here, Samuel. Sit by me.” The voice was milder, softer, inviting.  
He bit his lips and went to the bed.

Vetinari didn't seem to be in any hurry. He placed his hand over Vimes. Vimes tried to suppress a shudder, but Vetinari took no notice. Then he placed an arm around Vimes' waist, waited. 

In a few minutes he kissed the back of Vimes' neck. Vimes realized that it felt good. Some of the anxiety of the last two days began to go out of him. He leaned back against Vetinari. Bit by bit, Vetinari coaxed him along, bending to take off his shoes for him, straightening them beside the wall. 

Then he reached for Vimes again, and he tensed, thinking Vetinari might strip him. 

But he gently moved his lips to Vimes' cheek, kissing it, gently tasting along his-Vetinari's—own thin jaw beard. Then he opened the black robe a few buttons, slowly, pulling it away from Vimes' shoulder, rubbing Vimes' collarbone, and at this point Vimes decided to cooperate.

He lay his head back against Vetinari's, exposing more of his neck, and Vetinari rewarded him with nibbles down his neck, drawing down the robe slowly. The room was warm, much warmer than the chilly Oblong Office, and he said so.

“Yes, but I don't take my clothes off in the office.”

They both laughed. Vimes realized that something other than the touching was stirring him.

“Did you put something in that drink?”

“Of course. We needed to begin as soon as possible, and I didn't think I could get you there very quickly. I took some, too; it's been a long time for me, and with a new man, it's always awkward.”

“Man? Have you only been with men, your—what am I going to call you?”

“Why don't you say my name? The voice burred in the middle of his naked back, and Vimes' will to resist left him.

“Havelock? I'm always shocked when Sybil says it.”

“You could call me Havie.”

“No, that's worse...Havelock, then.” 

It was not nearly as bad as he had feared. When he was at last out of his clothes, and was under the quilts, he lay there next to Havelock's bare body. His body! To be his again soon, he hoped.

“What are you going to do?”

“Make you happy, I hope.” Vetinari—Havelock slowly took him over, kissing down on the chest, astonishing him by brushing his nipple, then pinching it. It felt sharp, and good. He must tell Sybil—no, he could never, no, he absolutely must tell her everything. 

When Vetinari had kissed down his stomach, he paused. Vimes' groin was now definitely awake, but Vetinari made no move toward it immediately. He waited, seeming to think.

“Why don't you sit up now? Let's put our legs around each other.”

Vetinari opened his thighs, scooted Vimes' body close, and then put his legs over Vimes' thighs, leaving Vimes to feel something astonishing. Even though he and Sibyl had tried this position a time or two, it was never—it could be never—Havelock's erection was now next to his own. 

Havelock reached out and gave him a small bottle.

“What's this?”

“Oil. Warming oil. Spread it over us.”

He did, and the warmth spilled over him, and quickly he was out of control. He came, saying, “Sorry, sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for.”

He lay back on the mattress, falling asleep. But a short time later, he was awakened as Havelock moved over him, rubbing him with his erection.

“Sorry, that's about all”—the other's hand moved against him, and he was erect again, too, even harder this time. How was that possible?

He asked out loud, and Havelock laughed lazily. “It was a good drink, wasn't it? Some little blue pills that Leonard makes.”

He pulled Havelock off this time, knowing how the body responded when it was his. Then the brown-haired man (His hair!) pushed him down on the bed, or tried to, and he grabbed Havelock and started wrestling. Havelock stopped, asking if anything was wrong, but Vimes just wanted to wrestle. This might be—hopefully would be!--the last time he would be in this long, pale body, and he wanted to know more how it worked. There was a memory of one of the Cockbill Street Roaring Lads he'd fought with more than any of the others. They'd thrown punches at each other, and caught each other's head to give noogies. The boy was older and not as tanned as the other boys, and they were about equal in strength. He remembered being pinned by the other boy and the way he'd liked a firm body over him. They'd stared at each other for a little too long, and both broke the hold at the same time. Vimes hit the other boy in the mouth and split his lip, and order was restored. 

Vetinari's body was strong, not as strong as his, but strong and quick enough to trip and spill the other man over his hip. Then he pounced on Vetinari, rolling him over.

“Getting there already, your grace?”

“No, I only want to hold you down. I think you can throw me, or at least that I could throw you, but I'd like to try in your body.”

They wrestled, tossing the sheets off, now both aroused, but not stopping while it was time to twist, try to throw each other—He landed once with his groin next to Havelock's face, and Havelock quickly moved his mouth onto the erection. It felt so startling, so good, he came again.

Then he lost track of the ways they pleasured each other, and for how long. Once Vetinari was on top of him, tonguing him deeply, and he grabbed Havelock's ass and slapped it, getting a long and growling groan in return.  
At one point they drank large draughts of ice water from a carafe on the night stand and rested, chests heaving, Vimes spooning with Vetinari.  
“I don't know how this is supposed to get us back into our own bodies, but it's fantastic,” he gasped out.

“Getting there, Samuel, getting there.”

He fell asleep once again, face down, and woke to find Havelock busy above him. The man was silently threading Vimes' wrists through cloth covered coils attached to the brass bedstead. He'd already worked Vimes' ankles through similar coils, and now he was stretched taut, pillow under his belly, his hips propped up. He started to be afraid, but warm hands were pressing on his back, shushing him, caressing him. Havelock straddled him, pressed against him from behind. 

“You have to want this for me to do it, Sam.” The voice was lower, rougher than before.  
“You can say no at any time."

More warming oil was spread down and rubbed deeply between his buttocks, and this time he moaned with the pleasure of it. Havelock stretched over him. "I'm going to put my finger in now, is that good?" 

it was. He was asked again if he wanted to be opened more, and with pulse racing fast, nodded yes, with a sharp breath as Havelock accomplished this.

“Now anything that happens after this will be only because you asked me for it. Begged me for it. But you can say no." The voice went on like an incantation, deep, vibrating, building, and he began to enjoy the strange sensation of being unable to get away. Now the Patrician was biting his earlobe, his shoulder, pulling his hair back, whispering urgent suggestions:

“Beg me. Beg me. Beg me, Sam, tell me you want me inside you! Beg me for it!" He was stroked again, made hard, made longing. The other man's body was thrusting between his thighs, while the driving voice continued.

" Now, Sam. Say it now. Beg Me! BEG! ME!” And then to his own astonishment he opened his mouth and said please.

The cock opened him, and his body was still tightly caught at wrists and ankles. He wanted it so much, and the cock was thrusting in further, harder, and then he was coming, and Havelock reached for a lever he didn't know was there, and pulled it, releasing the generator with all the magic sexual energy that had been stored. A bright sharpness ran through him, through both of them, he could tell, and he cried out, cried out, 

And he was lying with his cock halfway up the Patrician's backside, the Patrician's hands and feet still taut in the coils of the bedstead.

He caught his breath, sobbing, sobbing for the first time in two days, knowing he was home, gasping, body still shuddering, finally becoming still.

Then he realized something else. The irrepressible cock was hardening once more, and now he had the Patrician at his mercy.  
Maliciously, happily, he said, “Will you beg me, Havelock? Beg me for it?”

“Shut up, you idiot, and get in here.”

He did.

 

000000000000

He told Sibyl very nearly everything, not the last part, still so weird, where the Patrician buggered him, and he fucked the Patrician, with the same cock, and she nodded, accepting it all.

“I did what I had to, Sib. I did it to get back to you.”

“Of course.” She was quiet.

“You aren't angry, or, or, disgusted because I was with Havelock?”—he could never go back to calling him, “Your lordship,” not after all that had happened.

“No, not at all. Do you think you could get some of that blue drink from him?”

And she astonishingly grinned.

00000000000000

A week later, he went to the palace, late at night, to the private door he now knew existed, and told Drumknott, “Tell his lordship he has an appointment with me right now.”

The Patrician opened the inner door to the Oblong Office, nodded him in. The careful questioning expression on his face gave away nothing. They might have been strangers. There was no resemblance at all to the man who'd made torrential love to him. Looking at him, Vimes could almost believe it had all been a dream.

“Vet-Have—Look, I'm just going to go back to calling you Vetinari, in public, so nobody will think anything's changed.”

The black-haired man, pale body, thin hands, severe expression—not his anymore, thank gods! sat back down again in his chair and said, mildly,

“Did you come all the way up to the palace at eleven in the evening to tell me that?” It was hit him or kiss him, and Vimes didn't know which he wanted to do most. He could tell his heart was pounding faster, his mouth drying.

“No. Look, was that the only--do you still-- what happens next?" He was floundering, making a mess of it, but he had to ask.

“Nothing happens, I think. You're a married man.”

“Yes, well, Sibyl and I are married, but she—and I—want to know if you can come up to the house. Tomorrow. For dinner.”

“Certainly.”

He wasn't finished. “And—bring some of that blue drink. And some oil, and prepare to beg for it, your Lordship.”

Havelock came around the desk, pulled up his chin, and kissed him firmly.

“Yes, your grace, oh, please.”

The Patrician of the City and the Commander of the City Watch embraced each other, bodies shaking in silent laughter.

00000000000000

And the month after that, the Patrician appeared at Pseudopolis Yard in his various-shades-of gray-and-green camouflage robes, with the black soft slippers, and started to teach the Watch men, and women, and dwarfs, but not the trolls, how to climb around their city. 

All the one hundred watch-people's camouflage clothing, and the expensive soft slippers, several pairs each, were paid for by Unseen University. The University had also made a sixty-thousand dollar contribution to the charities of the city, and a similar amount to the watch's Widows and Orphans' fund, and had been strictly enjoined to stop messing around with lightening. Or be prepared to beg for it.

 

Fin.


End file.
